by John Creasey
He took her into one of the waiting rooms, where there was a telephone and a small desk. It was very warm, but she didn’t loosen her dark blue coat or her scarf. Roger took his coat off and flung it over a chair, and sat down. He pressed a bell, and a constable came in almost at once.
“Tea for two and some toast,” Roger said, “and make it snappy.” He nodded as the constable went out, then picked up the receiver. He had never felt more desperate with the need for doing a dozen things at once; the years had taught him to take the crazy days slowly at the start, and get the right perspective.
He called Turnbull.
“Micky Bryant went out in the early hours of this morning and hasn’t come back,” he said. “He was out last night between half past five and tennish, too. Drop everything and try to trace his movements. He was on his bicycle, both times, and the bike’s also missing. It was a Midge, pale blue with a red line, drop handlebars, two years old. You’ve pictures and descriptions of the boy. Get moving.”
“I’m on my way,” Turnbull said.
Roger rang off, but plucked the receiver up again at once and asked: “Is the Assistant Commissioner in, do you know? … Good, ring through to his secretary and say I’ll be along in five minutes.” He rang off, stood up and lit a cigarette, then darted towards the telephone again and said: “Give me Mr Morris.” He drew hard at the cigarette, watched all the time by Mrs Bryant. “Hallo, Morris, West here … How’s that collection of keys? Still in glass cases? … Good. I want you to let Mrs Bryant see it; she’ll be up with you in ten minutes or so. … Good man, thanks.” He rang off again, drew deeply at the cigarette, and said: “Practically every type of key is kept in the collection here, Mrs Bryant; you might be able to recognise the type from that, and when we can show you Post Office originals, you’ll find it easier to identify. Sure there’s nothing else you can tell me?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Mrs Bryant said, almost humbly. “Mr West—” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“You won’t hide anything about Derek or Micky from me, will you?”
“Nothing at all,” Roger promised. He glanced at his watch; and then the constable came in with a tea tray and toast under a silver plated cover: service usually reserved for the hierarchy. “You take your time over this,” Roger said to Mrs Bryant, “and when you’ve finished, the constable will take you to see the keys. Detective Inspector Morris is expecting Mrs Bryant,” he added to the policeman. “I’ll join you there.”
“Very good, sir.”
Once in the passage, Roger was at Chatworth’s door in two minutes, tapped, and opened the door without a summons. Chatworth was with his secretary, a no-nonsense forty in white blouse and black skirt. Obviously she had been given her instructions, for she said: “I’ll be back in a moment, sir.”
“Right” Chatworth had a sleek, shiny, polished look, and a bow tie, red with white spots, hid coyly behind his double chin. He was dressed in navy blue, and looked quite the high executive. “Well, what’s the hurry?” he asked as the door closed.
Roger said: “I won’t go into detail, but Mrs Bryant found a key at the house a day or two ago, and it could be the thing the thief was after. Her second son’s disappeared, with the key. I’d like her to be able to examine all the types of keys used by the Post Office; we might get an idea of the trouble to expect, but—” he had hardly paused for breath, but this time gave Chatworth a chance to speak; Chatworth let it pass. “I don’t want Carmichael at River Way to know what we’re doing. In fact I’d rather it was done at one of the other offices, if the same types of keys are used, and I wouldn’t carry enough authority to arrange it.”
Chatworth said: “Hum,” and then slowly put out a hand towards the telephone. “Well, you wouldn’t ask for that if you didn’t think it necessary. I’ll have a word with the Postmaster General’s office.”
He lifted the receiver.
“While you’re on to the PMG,” said Roger, “you might tell him that this morning we’re going to take the fingerprints of everyone on the payroll at River Way.”
Chatworth was holding on for his call.
“You know what the PMG—”
“I don’t care if they’re still delivering Christmas parcels on New Year’s Day,” Roger said. “We’ve got to have that job done this morning; we were fools to let them stop us before.”
Chatworth didn’t speak, until his call came through.
Then he was brisk, crisp and decisive.
“… well, please yourself, but we’ll take it to Cabinet level if needs be.” He listened, and then went on: “Good. See that Farnley gets a note, will you? And the keys … Good.” He rang off, and glowered. “Why do you always get what you want instead of a kick in the pants? They’ll send a note authorising the Postmaster at City Central to show you all the types of keys, and they’re exactly the same kind as those used at River Way. It’s an identical office. And you heard about the other.”
Roger jumped up.
“Thanks, sir,” he said, and turned to the door. “All right for me to leave?”
He arranged for the lock and key expert at the Yard to take Mrs Bryant to the City Central Post Office. Then he looked in at his office, to check the post – and found Silver by the desk, saying into the telephone: “I don’t care if he’s with the Commissioner himself, get him on the line.”
Roger let the door close behind him. Silver didn’t notice him at first, but he didn’t like what he saw of Silver: the glittering eyes, the taut lips, the urbanity all gone. So this was more bad news; and Silver had been in search of Micky Bryant.
Silver saw him, stiffened, and then slowly put the receiver down. As Roger went nearer, the other man said: “The St John’s Wood man watching Didi’s flat was killed last night. Skull smashed. There’d been a fight in the garden of the house. Micky Bryant’s cap was found there. So was his bicycle. He’s missing. I’ve seen Didi Ames, and she says she doesn’t know a thing. I’d like a warrant to search both flats at that house.”
“See Charworth,” Roger said. “He’ll play.”
In spite of grit and salt, the drive along the Embankment to River Way was a nightmare. It was freezing harder than ever, and car after car turned in a gentle skid and went into the kerb at either side. Heavy traffic was pulled up alongside the river, the drivers taking no chances. The Thames looked like watery ice, as if it would freeze over if the cold weather continued. Everyone whom Roger passed was huddled up, chilled, miserable.
A long line of red Post Office vans queued outside the entrance with as many covered lorries all carrying red post office printed labels. Drivers and men stood about or stamped up and down, banging their arms across their chests. As he drew nearer, Roger saw why. A big van had skidded into a post, and was blocking traffic both ways. He called a policeman to take his own car to the end of the line, squeezed past the wreckage where seven or eight men were busy, and hurried towards the loading platforms, slipping as he went. He expected to find Carmichael in a rage or at least a flurry. Instead, the little man was superintending the loading of some vans in his calmest mood. He was muffled up in a thick belted topcoat and a bulging brown scarf and he wore a bowler hat. His ears looked as red as a woman’s varnished nails, and the shine on his nose would have pleased any brewer. There were twenty or more vans and lorries in the yard, where the loading and unloading were going smoothly.
Roger was outwardly calm.
“Ah, good morning,” Carmichael said, and added with gentle malice: “Didn’t think it would be too long before you arrived, Mr West”
“Morning,” Roger said. “Why aren’t you tearing your hair?”
“How little you know of the problems that confront us here,” said Carmichael. “The danger was that we might get choked, Mr West, but this morning we shall be practically clear before the next deliveries arrive. Once clear, we can keep the flow going.”
“That’s good,” Roger said, “we needed a clear spell, too.” He told Carmichael what he w
as going to do, and saw the man’s eyes narrow as if with utter dismay.
“We want just one man with a certain fingerprint, that’s all,” Roger said, “and we’ve got to find him.”
“Very well, if it must be, it must be,” Carmichael said thinly.
“Thanks.” Roger hesitated, and then said very slowly and deliberately: “How far do you think Miss Deirdre Ames can be trusted, Mr Carmichael?”
Carmichael stood very still. His gaze didn’t falter. His hands did not move.
“I think the best thing is to set up your equipment in the canteen,” he said, carefully. “It is the most convenient place, and the process won’t get in the way of the mail. However, I’m not very sanguine of results if you want a complete coverage, Mr West. At least six of the temporaries have telephoned to say that they can’t get in this morning, two regulars are down with influenza, and several men haven’t turned up or taken the trouble to send a message. It’s always like this with a fluctuating staff. I am sure that Mr Farnley would agree that we must do everything we can to co-operate, and I will readily volunteer to have my prints taken first.”
There was no way to force him or Didi Ames to talk; yet.
Three Yard men arrived, and Roger had the fingerprinting started before he left; Carmichael’s first. There were a few grumbles, but no one positively refused to have his prints taken. When Roger left, a little after half past ten, snow had started to fall again, and the sky was so dark that it was hard to realise it was mid-morning. There was no sense in trying to hurry. He took half an hour to reach the Yard, left the car in a convenient place for driving off again, and went straight up to the engineers’ department, and the keys.
Mrs Bryant was waiting.
She had selected a key which was very much like the one she had seen in the box.
An hour later, at the City Central Office, she picked out a similar key. A grey haired, brown eyed Post Office official, who had a runny cold, put it aside and said nothing while Mrs Bryant was there, but his glance at Roger suggested that he had plenty to say.
He took Roger into another office.
“Chief Inspector,” he said solemnly, “this key is the master key to all London Post Office vans. A driver who has locked his rear doors might reasonably feel secure in leaving the car, but with this key, any van could be unlocked and registered packages taken out in a matter of minutes. Almost, in seconds! There is one such key in each main post office, in the custody of the Chief Sorter. Had one been reported missing I am quite sure that I would have heard, but if you care to telephone the Postmaster General’s office, you could make sure of that.”
“Thanks,” said Roger. “I will.”
He telephoned at once, and was told that no theft had been reported. But Mrs Bryant was quite sure that it was the same kind of key, and there was none other like it in the Post Office selection.
“If the killers have had it for ten minutes they’ll have had an impression made, and with a master and a couple of good locksmiths they can turn keys out by the dozen,” Roger told Chatworth, and went on: “We should make the strongest recommendation that all locks be changed as soon as possible, sir.”
Chatworth said sharply: “It’ll take days!”
“Until it’s done every GPO van needs a special guard, and that will take some organising, too. Sorry, sir, but—”
“I’ll do what I can,” Chatworth said, “but don’t overlook the fact that some people will expect us to find the missing key, and stop any duplicates being made.” He wasn’t simply being sarcastic.
“Couldn’t agree more, sir,” Roger said. “I’m going to recommend that we put a general call out to all stations and substations. We want all locksmiths visited, and all known keycutters, and we want to find out if anyone has been asked to cut one or more keys which measure up to the following dimensions. It’s a Landon make, quadruple notched. …” He went into the technicalities. “As soon as we’ve a photograph I’ll send it round, but that information should be enough to go on with.”
“I’ll see to it,” Chatworth said.
“Thank you, sir. Goodb—”
“Hold on!” Chatworth shouted, and Roger just heard him. “You still there? … All right, now listen. We’ve just had a message from St John’s Wood. The body of a youth, who might be Micky Bryant, has been taken out of the Regent’s Canal. We can’t be sure, because the face is unrecognizable.”
“Mutilated?”
“Crushed. Car wheel, probably. But we must know if it’s Micky Bryant. Too small for his brother.”
“All right,” Roger said. “I’ll try to get identification soon. That all, sir?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll ring you when I’ve news,” Roger said.
He thanked the Post Office official, and then went out, to join Mrs Bryant.
Although he moved quickly, his feet seemed to drag, for this was a job he had no heart for at all. It had to be done: he seemed destined to be the one to take bad news to Kath Bryant. Her eyes were full of shadows and of fear, and the unspoken question in them couldn’t have been more stark.
Roger said: “Mrs Bryant, I’m afraid we’re a long way from certain, but we have to check on a body found this morning. The only way to check is to make sure whether Micky had any other identification marks. Had he?”
She stood absolutely still.
Then she said: “Take me with you, please. I will see for myself.”
Roger did not argue.
The journey from the City to St John’s Wood was fairly good, for the road had been cleared and there was much less traffic than in normal weather. Snow was still falling lightly.
They reached the police station, and went into the morgue adjoining, where a youth’s naked body lay beneath a sheet. The face had been lightly bandaged, and obviously Mrs Bryant guessed why; but she searched for a spot on the lower abdomen.
Then, she swung round on Roger, her fine eyes blazing.
“It isn’t Micky,” she cried, “it isn’t Micky! And Derek’s fair!”
Chapter Eighteen
The Robberies
Roger drove back to the Yard, sent Mrs Bryant home with a driver, then hurried along to his office and was greeted by three men all speaking at once. He sensed the change in their manner; sensed crisis. This was a different element, and yet it didn’t surprise him. For days the tension had been increasing remorselessly.
At first it was just something in the manner of the trio, a kind of suppressed excitement.
“Chatty wants you.”
“You heard, Handsome?”
“Now she blows.”
Roger looked at the CI who had said, “You heard, Handsome?” and asked: “Heard what?” His heart was thumping.
“Five PO vans robbed,” one said, explosively.
“Five different parts of London,” another chimed in. “What a hell of a day for it!”
Now it came like a blast of hot, gritty air. Five Post Office vans robbed. If they had said fifty, the effect could hardly have been harsher.
Roger said: “A hell of a day’s right,” and turned away, almost running along the corridor. He had to pass the lift to get to Chatworth’s office, and as it drew up to the floor level Silver appeared. There was snow on his Homburg and his beautifully cut coat, but he was still immaculate.
“Handsome!”
Roger turned his head. “Can’t wait—” he began, then saw who it was, and waited. “PO vans are being raided all over London. You got anything new?”
“Could be. A car was seen driving away from Didi Ames’s place last night. Neighbour who couldn’t sleep saw a man being forced into it. Nervous type, didn’t say a word until we questioned people with windows overlooking the house.”
“Car identified?” asked Roger.
“An Austin A40. Carmichael has one. Time we picked him up, isn’t it?”
“Yes. And the Ames woman, for questioning. Lay it on.”
“Right,” said Silver.
“Than
ks.” Roger went at the double towards Chatworth’s office. There was Chatworth with the unfamiliar sleekness, standing at the window this time, and looking round towards the door. As Roger closed it, the telephone bell rang. Chatworth moved slowly, and picked up the receiver.
“Assistant Commissioner,” he announced, and his manner bordered the ponderous.
He listened.
“All right,” he said, “do what you can.” He put the receiver down, and said to Roger in the same tone of voice: “That’s the sixth PO van raid this morning. This time the driver was injured. Three sacks of registered packets gone. New district this time—Putney. No way of telling how many there’ll be, is there?”
“No,” Roger said.
“Anything at all to work on?” Chatworth asked. “More than I already know, I mean?”
“Silver is going to pick up Didi Ames at her place, and have a look round. I’m going over to pick Carmichael up for questioning. By the letter of the law we can’t raid his flat, but—”
“I’ll get a search warrant,” Chatworth said. “Is he still at River Way?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him here,” Chatworth ordered.
The telephone bell rang again.
Roger knew exactly what Chatworth feared, and felt as much on edge. Chatworth took off the receiver.
“Yes,” said Chatworth.
“Yes.”
“All right, thanks.” He rang off, and kept a stubby forefinger on the shiny telephone. “Number 7. Hampstead. No one hurt. For all we know there might be a dozen other robberies taking place at this very minute. Go and get Carmichael. Don’t stand there gawping at me, man, go and get Carmichael!”
Carmichael was in his office, studying some foolscap sheets of figures when a man came hurrying across the Sorting Office, and his shadow darkened the doorway for a moment. He strode in, and Carmichael looked up – into the rugged face of the van driver Simm. Simm’s eyes were glittering, his fingers poked out of khaki mittens and his nose looked like one long dewdrop.
Carmichael was sharp.